


What Happened That Night

by freckleslikeconstellations



Series: Coming To Terms [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Loneliness, Multi, Reader taking on Mummy Holmes, please someone give Mycroft a hug, series 4 references
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-12
Updated: 2017-02-12
Packaged: 2018-09-23 12:41:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9657893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freckleslikeconstellations/pseuds/freckleslikeconstellations
Summary: After Mycroft faces one of the worst days of his life there's only one person he wants to see. You.Prologue to 'Happy Birthday Mr. British Government.'





	

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, thanks for all your support. :) 
> 
> Hope you enjoy this. :)

The day has settled into night. A night, which sees you brooding as you sit in the dimly lit living room of your flat. The light coming from the lamp on the side table by the brown, leather settee is the only thing which illuminates you. It casts everything in half-shadow, which fits perfectly with the conflict that is going on in your mind right now.  
Earlier on in the day-in a break between all your office work-you’d tried to call some of your friends because you hadn’t spoken to them in a while. Not since all that business of the explosion at Baker Street, or more particularly in the flats where your friends, Sherlock Holmes and Mrs. Hudson live. Both had, had to move in temporarily with John Watson-another person you’d like to consider a friend-and aside from the initial communication that you’d made after the explosion not much has been forthcoming from their side. You’d tried not to take it personally. They’d had enough to be getting on with after all. When you’d tried to call Sherlock today he hadn’t picked up. That hadn’t been unusual. Not if he’d been on a case or even if the phone was slightly out of reach. John hadn’t picked up either and though Mrs. Hudson had she’d seemed to have bigger things on her mind and like she was being rushed off her feet with things to do. You’d told her that you’d try and call again when things weren’t so busy in a cheerful tone, but you’d felt distinctly more upset and disgruntled as you’d disconnected the call. You’d rung Molly Hooper next, but she’d seemed in such a bad mood that you hadn’t spent long on the phone with her either. You’d mused for a moment as you’d sat there with your phone in between your hands in the little area between the two sides of the open plan office. Then you’d pulled yourself together enough to try and call Greg Lestrade-a silver haired police officer who is another person you'd like to think you could go to if you needed to-perhaps he’d fancy going for a drink with you tonight? ‘Some other time?’ he’d said. He'd sounded as if he was walking on his way briskly to somewhere. Feeling all the more rejected you’d said that yes, that would be fine, before you’d ended that call too. It had struck you then, as you’d sat there how you’ve got so many people that you’d like to consider your friend, but you’re not sure whether they’d feel the same way about you. You suppose that part of the problem stems from the fact that you’d come into their lives when they’d already gotten established with one another, coming in, in the two years that Sherlock was pretending to be dead having met a lonely Mrs. Hudson in the supermarket one night. You've been friends with her ever since, but it hadn’t been until Sherlock had returned that you’d gotten yourself properly established with everyone else. Although perhaps ‘properly established’ is stretching things. You've felt like you’ve been on the outside looking in for the most part. If Sherlock is the sun in the group then you're the distant star, barely noticed.  
It had taken you a couple of hours after that to decide to ring Mycroft Holmes on your next break and you’d only gone through with that because you’d been feeling so desperately lonely. He hadn’t answered. Probably busy with his own work and once more you’d felt bitter about your situation with him. If you could argue that you’ve been neglected by your friends recently, argue that you’ve been treated badly by them, then you could also argue that Mycroft has been treating you the worst of all. What with the way he makes you feel like you mean something to him sometimes with the way he turns up unexpectedly at your flat. Of course he acts as if he was always going to come. Makes you feel like you’d arranged it together and then you’d just forgotten. He’d go on to criticize your alcohol collection, but drink whatever you picked out anyway, and then, somehow, despite all that charming behaviour you’d end up in bed together. He’d make you feel special during the whole process; make you want nothing but him. But as soon as you woke up and he was already gone you’d feel used. It hadn’t stopped it from happening again and again though. Hadn't stopped you from hoping each time that he might let you into what’s going on in that head of his. Yet of course he never does. He stays long enough sometimes to give you a little early morning hope. You catch a smile on his face as he moves to the edge of the bed and tries to hide it. Sometimes you get close to asking him _‘Why?’_ Why he’s doing all this? Why does he keep coming back to you? Is it because he actually feels something for you like you hope it is? Or is it just because he’s picked up on the fact that you’d struggle to turn him away? But anyway before you can do any of that he’s on his way again. You should probably call it off, you think in the present, not for the first time. Mrs. Hudson, who you’ve confided in about the matter and who you suspect has let all your other friends know about it too, has tried to tell you that he’s not treating you like he should be and told you that you should just walk away. If she’d been able to see you as you are now then she’d probably just advise you to keep him on the doorstep one night, not let him in, tell him what you need to and then close the door in his face. But even the thought of doing that makes something tremble inside you. If Sherlock is addicted to achieving highs in all manner of the word and all the rest of your friends are addicted to Sherlock in their own way then you’re addicted to Mycroft. As much as you might hate feeling like this no one else has made you feel so good like he has- 

 

Your phone rings. You answer it slowly without even checking the number, still in that state of heavy contemplation. “Yes?” you say distractedly, your mind still on Mycroft. 

 

“F/N”- It’s Greg, and he sounds both a little tired and troubled. You picture him scraping a hand across his jaw-“Listen, I’ve just left Mycroft’s. He’s had quite a tough day”-

 

Your heart wavers. Oh God. “He’s not”- You don’t know where it comes from, this sudden feeling like something bad has happened, that Mycroft might actually be dead, but then you remember about how inaccessible your friends have been all day and something cold churns inside you. 

 

“He’s alive F/N,” Greg says with some clarity. 

 

“Oh thank God.” Your head does a little spin and you raise your free hand towards it. When you stagger off to the side you ground yourself, so that you come to be standing in a more secure position. 

 

“Yeah,” Greg’s voice rises as if he too might be shifting his position. “But like I said he’s had quite a tough time of it. He’s a bit shaken”-

 

“Oh God,” you say, because you know that if Greg’s saying that Mycroft’s a ‘bit shaken’ then he must be in a really bad way. 

 

“Yeah, listen”-there’s some rustling now-“I know you’ve got a fairly good relationship with him.” Your heart squeezes up with tension. You feel even more certain that Mrs. Hudson’s told everyone, probably in the hope that they’d help warn you off Mycroft if nothing else, but _still…_ it’s hard to think about what they must be saying about you behind your back. How silly they must think you. Mooning over Sherlock's older brother. Being at his beck and call whenever he should need you. “Like I said I’ve had to leave, got to sort a few things out, but perhaps you could come and be with him? Even if it’s just for a little while? I’ve taken a basic statement from him, but I don’t think he’s fit for anything more tonight. I think he just needs a familiar face who wasn’t involved in all of this. It might be good for him you know?”

 

“Y-Yeah of course,” you say without delay, worrying about what might have got Mycroft so rattled. You come off the phone a moment later, switch the lamp off, do a quick change of your clothes and grab your handbag. You’re heading towards the door when there comes a knock on it. You come to a stop in the middle of your quick stride, before, after swallowing, you hurry towards the door. You've barely opened it, before you’re being pushed back again, the door clicking shut behind the newcomer. It takes you a moment to realize that Mycroft’s in front of you, his body pressed against yours, his arms wrapped around you. You feel breathless; both from the sudden activity and because of the way he’s holding you. He hasn’t done it like this before. Usually when he holds you its full of dominance and desire. His hands would be tight and every touch of his fingertips would thrum with passion. But this is different, full of need, and-is that his body you can feel vibrating against yours? _“Mycroft?”_ you ask him. 

 

He releases a slow, long breath as if he’s savouring the way that you just said his name even though it’s all wrong because you sound frightened and worried. You can’t know that for the longest of times, through the numbness and odd sensation of feeling about what’s happened that day one thought has been floating through his head-that for some reason or another he has to find and see you. That he has to be with you. As soon as Greg had left he’d only sat in his darkening kitchen for a moment longer, before he’d set about making that need-for it had felt greater than a plain want-a reality. His arms shift against you. He lets out another breath, before he kisses the top of your hair. 

 

You pull away from him, feeling really worried. His eyes captivate you the most as you pull back from him. For the emotion in them is strained and wavering as if he’s close to tears. It makes you adjust your position, makes your hands go to the top of his arms. Wanting to reassure him you say, “It’s all right Mycroft. Whatever’s happened it’s all right. You’re safe now.”

 

He lets out a cross between what could be a chuckle and a dry sob, before his lips find yours. He pushes you back even more and you let out a gasp as your mouth opens for him. Your hands rest against the sides of his hair, your fingertips press lightly into his skull. He guides you expertly to your bedroom, barely breaking out of the kiss as if you’re providing him with his only air supply, before you both kick off your shoes and fall onto the bed together. Mycroft lets out a growl as he can’t pull your trousers and underwear down quickly enough and then he’s suddenly unzipped himself enough to be inside you and despite all the confusion and fear you feel you let him take you both to the place that he wants you to in a frantic state of urgency, before you both come crashing back down to reality again. 

 

For a moment, as you feel him growing smaller inside you, he just collapses close to your shoulder, panting and shuddering a little, completely spent. His face is pressed into you, before he looks up. His eyes are large, his lips slightly parted, and you look at him in much the same manner, feeling uncomfortable with your top and bra slightly hitched up. 

 

Mycroft clears his throat, before he withdraws. He tidies himself up a little and secures himself back inside his underwear and trousers with you watching beneath him all the while, before he lets out a little snort as if he’s suddenly realizing how ridiculous the situation is. He clambers off you and sits on the edge of the bed. As you swallow and sit up, tidying up your hair and getting fully clothed once more you hope that he’s not about to bolt because you’ve waited long enough for answers and you want to get them. You chew on your lip and watch as his fingers shift a little anxiously against the duvet. 

 

“I suppose you want an explanation?” His fingers still. 

 

You clear your throat. “Yeah. An explanation would be good,” you say. 

 

Mycroft lets out a rueful snort at your forced casualness. He looks back at you over your shoulder and you smile tentatively, trying to encourage him. He just about manages to return it as his eyes shine upon you. Then he swings back and together you lie down on the rumpled duvet, facing each other on your sides with Mycroft’s hand upon your waist. “I have a sister,” he informs you, “Eurus.” Your mouth opens. “Yes, I think that was probably Sherlock’s response too.”

 

 _“Sherlock?”_ you question, wondering how the youngest Holmes brother could be surprised when this must be his sister too. 

 

Then it’s all coming out. Mycroft’s explaining about Eurus’s strange behaviour when she was a child. How clever, but scary she was and still remains. How unpredictable. Explaining about the fire she’d started at the Holmes ancestral home. You squeeze his side and he breaks off. He looks at you gratefully at that. He explains about how Eurus had been taken away for her own protection as much as anyone else’s. How he’d decided to continue what Uncle Rudy had started by saying that there had been another fire and that this time Eurus had perished in it. Mycroft doesn’t speak for a long moment after he reveals that. 

 

“It’s all right,” you tell him. “It’s all right.”

 

He swallows a couple of times. “You don’t think it was stupid of me? Selfish?” 

 

At the moment you’re the one who feels selfish. There you’d been, just moments before Mycroft had come around, thinking about breaking up the arrangement you’ve got with him and he’s had something this terrible going on in the background the whole time. “It doesn’t matter what I think,” you say dismissively, because not only is it far too early to decide what you think since you’re only just slotting together everything in your mind, but because you want him to get all this off his chest. “Just keep talking,” you urge. 

 

“Of course what you think matters,” Mycroft says, pulling back from you now and looking alarmed. You make a soothing noise and rub at his arms. He stares at you as if you’re being far too casual about this for his liking. “I-I love you,” he utters. Just the way that he’d wanted to see you tonight after everything has proven that to himself in a way more profound than he could have ever thought. 

 

Hearing that from him is like a shot of adrenalin straight to the heart. It casts away all the doubts and negative thoughts you’ve ever had. But, as important as hearing him say that to you is-knowing that you’ve been right and that you haven’t been a fool after all-you feel like you have to react calmly to it. After all your focus should be on helping Mycroft to begin to come to terms with whatever on earth’s happened today. Everything else should be secondary. “Good. I love you too. Tell me about today.” The words roll off your tongue naturally-you’ve felt them for long enough after all. You stroke at his arms some more. 

 

“ ‘Good?’ Is that all?” Mycroft looks at you as if you have no idea what a big moment that was for him, _or_ how much courage it would have taken. 

 

The thing is though you _are_ aware of both those things. Your whispered negative thoughts have often told you that even if Mycroft _did_ feel in such a way about you then he would never tell you. “Don’t think I don’t know how much it would have taken you to say that,” you tell him, and Mycroft looks momentary relieved now, as if you might be the person he’d thought you were after all. “I do. But I know that something dreadful has happened today”-Mycroft’s face shuts down-“You don’t have to tell me,” your voice wavers ever so slightly, “But if you want to, if you can”-

 

“I want to,” Mycroft says and you can feel something shaking between you as the room descends into silence once more and you stand on the cusp of this important moment between you. “But you might have to help me find the strength to.” He smiles weakly, looking rather embarrassed about it all. You swallow and then nod in understanding when he gestures to his chest. You nestle close, holding onto him securely as his rumbling voice begins to speak above you. He tells you about how, going back to the day of the explosion, for he supposes that's when today's events had properly begun, he’d gone to 221B and ended up telling Sherlock and John about everything that he’d just told you. Sherlock had discovered he had a sister just before that and prompted the conversation. Then he tells you about how Eurus had sent a drone with a grenade attached to it to Baker Street. 

 

“I thought she was locked up, so how could she-?”

 

Mycroft looks heavy. “All in good time.” He tells you how when the grenade had caused the explosion he’d gotten Mrs. Hudson out-your eyes shine at that and you wish that he’d told you such a thing before. It would have really helped improve your opinion of him and banish those doubts. 

 

Seeing such a thing Mycroft confesses sheepishly, “I only did so because Sherlock told me to.” 

 

“Still, it was a good thing.” You kiss at his cheek, sending colour out across his pale skin. 

 

He tells you about how today Sherlock, John and he had carried out their plan to go undercover to Sherrinford-the secure building on the island Eurus was being kept-and Mycroft telling you briefly about his fisherman disguise makes you smile in such a fond way that he kisses at your lips briefly. You understand why the three of them at least have seemed so busy and unavailable for contact lately. But then, going back to the whole matter of Sherrinford, his breaths start to grow more and more uneven. A tremor begins to run through him. 

 

“It’s all right. You don’t have to tell me. We can discuss it later and have tea or something first?” 

 

“No, no.” Mycroft’s hands caress at your back. He swallows and pulls himself together some more. “I want to.” 

 

“Okay,” you say, squeezing onto him and letting him know that you’re ready to listen whenever he’s ready to talk. 

 

Slowly, and in between several deep breaths, it comes out of him. How Sherlock had managed to visit his sister. How she’d been able to come and go as she pleased. How John-the furthest emotionally away from everything-had managed to realize that the entire prison was under Eurus’s control. How Mycroft, Sherlock, John and the governor of the prison had then found themselves stuck in Eurus’s cell and forced to do her bidding. Mycroft’s body gives a violent and involuntary shudder at that. 

 

“It’s okay,” you say, close to tears at seeing him in such a way. Mycroft lets out several breaths over your shoulder. “It’s okay.” You make two firm strokes across his back, using both of your hands. “Would you like some water or anything?” Mycroft shakes his head, and you can tell, in that moment as his hands tighten upon you, that he doesn’t want you to leave him right now. “It’s okay. I'm here.” 

 

He kisses at the top of your hair, before he goes on to tell you how Eurus had forced Sherlock to choose either John or him to shoot and kill the governor. If one of them did that then the governor’s wife, whom they could see that Eurus was holding hostage via a screen, would be saved. But if Sherlock did it then it wouldn't count. 

 

“Sherlock tried to pass the gun to me”- Mycroft can’t say anything more than that. His already pale face goes paler and he lets go of you and scrambles up, on all fours as he begins to retch.

 

In alarm you get up and begin to guide him off the bed and towards the bathroom. He crouches down by the toilet, but nothing comes up. “It’s okay.” You rub at his back. “It’s okay.” He huffs out a bit of a breath and stands. “You want to go back to the bedroom?” Suddenly his arms are around you again. “Okay.” You release a breath of your own and stroke at his back once more. Slowly, and after a long moment of just holding onto one another, whilst both your breaths start to calm down you return to the bedroom where you lie down on the bed, facing each other once more. 

 

“I couldn't F/N.” Mycroft shakes his head. He strokes at your hair with fervent fingers. “It would have been murder. I couldn't do it.” 

 

In that moment, for some inexplicable reason you feel on the verge of tears once more. Perhaps it’s the fact that he looks so horrified by the thought of it and that fills you with such a sense of relief because late, late at night and when those negative thoughts had been swirling again you’d often found yourself worrying about what type of things Mycroft might have done as part of his work. Worrying about what sort of person you were getting involved with. Perhaps its because he’s finally proven to you that he’s the person you’d always hoped he was. “I'm glad,” you say, smiling genuinely at him. 

 

Mycroft swallows, his eyes studying yours. He goes on to say how John had gotten closer to doing what Eurus wanted and killing the governor, before he hadn’t been able to either. “So, as soon as the governor saw that neither of us would be able to do it,” Mycroft goes on tremulously as you stroke rhythmically at his side, “He snatched the gun off of John”-your fingers stop moving at that, your breath gathers in your throat-“And used it on himself.” 

 

“Oh God Mycroft no.” You push your head close to his chest as if you might be able to force the dark memory right out of him. Your hands tighten on his back. Mycroft closes his eyes and takes comfort from your presence. You can’t know that there’s worse to come. It’s bad enough, you discover, that Eurus had killed the governor’s wife anyway. Bad enough that it seemed like there was a little girl who was flying high in the sky on a plane, the only one awake and that they could only get to speak to her in short snatches when Eurus deemed fit. Bad enough that it looked like the plane might crash into a city. Bad enough that Eurus had made Sherlock decide, which one out of three brothers had killed someone, before she’d dropped all three of them out onto the rocks at Sherrinford anyway. But when you hear about how Sherlock had, had to get Molly to say that she loved him or otherwise her flat would be blown up it’s you who needs to take a break. You pull back from Mycroft properly and squeeze at his arm, your nails properly digging into it. Mycroft looks at you sympathetically. “Please tell me”-

 

“She’s alive F/N.” 

 

“Good. Oh good.” You swing up, thinking that you might be sick. You couldn't bear it if all this time you’ve been here, feeling terrible the more and more you’ve heard what Mycroft has been through, but clinging onto the fact that no matter what he has he’s still alive, Molly had been dead. If you’d spent the whole day feeling neglected by her only to discover that.

 

Mycroft sits up too and holds you awkwardly in his arms for a moment. He strokes at your hair and you listen to his heartbeat, feeling grateful for its sound. “She didn't answer at first. We could just see her on the screen, making a cup of tea.” He lets out a rueful snort at that. “Then she did, but she had a bad temper about her”-

 

“She didn't seem best pleased when I phoned her earlier. I don’t know why.” You pull back from him now and just sit facing one another. You feel sorry for Molly and think that you’ll have to properly do something together soon. Maybe you’re not the only one whose been lonely. 

 

“Then,” Mycroft says, still stroking at your hair, “She made my brother say the words, before she did so herself. There were only a few seconds remaining. Of course,” he goes on somewhat bitterly, “Eurus then revealed that Molly had never been in any danger in the first place.” His face turns dark now, and you can’t know that it does so because he’s picturing what had come next-Sherlock smashing up the coffin that had supposedly been for Molly-thinking of the damage that, that one act had caused to his little brother. 

 

 _“Bitch,”_ you say in a fervent, low tone. Mycroft’s face clears and he looks at you in some surprise. “Sorry,” you correct yourself, “I-I mean, I know she’s your sister and everything.” 

 

Mycroft’s face softens. “Perhaps,” he ventures, “In this instance she deserves such language being thrown at her.”

 

You look up, feeling encouraged. 

 

The worst though is still yet to come. Mycroft tells of how, after a time, Sherlock, John and he had proceeded into the next room. This one had been empty. A point, which Sherlock had made to Eurus, before she’d reminded him of the gun he still had from the incident with the governor. “She then told Sherlock that he’d have to kill either John or me.” 

 

Your face transforms into a picture of horror at that. Mycroft takes you in his arms again. You cling onto him as if you don’t ever want to let go, checking and re-checking his heartbeat. Still, you can’t help but breathe, “Does that mean, because you’re here, that-?” You can’t carry on. 

 

“John’s alive.” You let out a whoosh of breath. “Everyone’s alive, even Eurus.” Mycroft looks at you consideringly. “I'm sorry F/N. I should have told you.” You swallow and nod. “But for a moment I”- he breaks off and swallows again. You look at him with wide, panicked eyes. “I was prepared not to be alive for much longer,” he says. 

 

“What do you mean?” Your teeth chatter and you feel a sense of anger rising inside you as well as heartbreak. God, had you really spent the whole day wrapped up in selfish thoughts just because you'd felt in the mood to contact your friends but hadn't been able to properly? You should have known there would be a good reason. 

 

As Mycroft lets go of you and leans back the only part of you that is touching are your legs, and even they are only doing so in a fleeting fashion. “I mean that I recognized that Sherlock needed John more than he needs me.” You open your mouth, about to protest at that. You might not be fully immersed in the group, but you know that Sherlock needs Mycroft whether he’d ever confess to it or not. Mycroft raises a hand and you close your mouth again. “Dr. John Watson, as much as I hate to admit it,” Mycroft breathes heavily, “Has done more good for my brother than I’ve ever managed, despite my persistent attempts to.” You look at him sorrowfully, your hands rubbing at his arms. You’re withdrawing them when Mycroft takes them in his, holding them between you and giving them a bit of a squeeze. You take courage from his, though tears begin to run down your cheeks anyway as he says, “I tried to make Sherlock angry with me.” Your heart tightens. “I said all these horrible things about John and my brother. You would have hated me for that.” He forces a brave half-smile at you.

 

“I doubt that. I would have been angry with you perhaps, scared…but I could never hate you.” Your hands intermingle further. You know that more than ever now. 

 

“In the end though I couldn't even get that right.” He gives you another feeble half-smile. “Sherlock saw right through me.”

 

“I'm glad,” you say thickly and suddenly you’re crying far more freely and he’s holding you in his arms. But when you feel dampness upon your hair and realize that he’s crying too you pull back. E/C eyes catch against blue ones, before you swoop forwards and kiss him, your hands cupping at his cheeks. You surge against each other, your bodies pushing against one another’s as if they’re making sure of the others existence, whilst you’ve got your eyes closed. One of his hands caresses at your hair, whilst the other holds onto your side. You finally pull apart and you clutch onto his shoulders, your head ducked as you start to process the frightening fact that he could have actually died today. Your body trembles. Just the thought of it is bad enough. If you’d actually been there or been able to witness it then you would be even more of a mess than you are now. You try and put yourself in his shoes, imagine the fear that he must have felt and his bravery shines through to you in that moment. 

 

“F/N I'm here.” 

 

You look up and swallow consideringly as you stare into his eyes deeply. “Don’t be willing to sacrifice yourself again, okay? I can’t cope with it.” You push your head into his shoulder. “Promise me?” you ask as he cups at your hair with his hand. He doesn’t promise you. He just kisses at your hair. You pull back, sniffing a little. You know that he’d do the exact same thing all over again if he needed to. “What happened then?” You swipe at your eyes. “When Sherlock realized what you were doing?” you ask him. 

 

Mycroft holds you close again and strokes at your hair as you listen to his heartbeat. Right then you look like two survivors of a shipwreck, drifting out to sea on a white piece of wood. His arms wrap around you as he tells you how Sherlock had refused to play Eurus’s game any more. How for one terrible moment Mycroft had thought that his little brother was going to shoot himself. 

 

“It’s”- you begin automatically. 

 

“All right,” Mycroft finishes even though you both know that it isn't. Mycroft frowns and you once more feel like cursing Eurus. How could she have done all this?

 

Mycroft explains how she’d knocked them all out with tranquillizer darts. He tells you how when he’d woken he’d found himself back in Eurus’s cell with the dead governor. He looks like he might be sick at that point and he blows out a breath, his face paling more. You rub at his arms reassuringly. Mycroft swallows. Once then twice. “I didn't know what was going on. Where my brother and John were. It was”- he breaks off and for a moment, as that emotion wavers in his eyes again you just hold him close. 

 

You rub at his back. “It’s okay. It’s okay.” 

 

Mycroft swallows and then pulls back from you. You sit there facing each other with your hands gently linked. “Later I found out that she’d taken them back to the Holmes ancestral home. She’d put John in a well. The water was beginning to rise and Sherlock had to figure everything out in order to save him. It wasn’t long before John found out what has been in the well for a very long time.” He seems barely able to look at you now and your brow furrows. “I believe Sherlock has, at times in the past, mentioned to you that he used to have a dog?” 

 

“Mm Redbeard. He first told me when I said that I was missing my parents’s one back home,” you remember, before your face tenses. “Don’t tell me”-

 

“We never had a dog F/N,” Mycroft informs you, looking at you at last. You feel frightened. Your fingers clutch onto his tighter for reassurance. Mycroft swallows. “The remains that John found in the well belonged to Victor Trevor. He was just a young boy when he died. The best friend of Sherlock.” Your body begins to tremble. Mycroft’s hands cover yours. “Eurus wanted a best friend, but never had one. She was jealous so she killed Sherlock’s.”

 

“Oh God.” Your face whitens. You rock forwards a little and Mycroft holds on to just beneath your shoulders. Listening to him right now is like hearing one horror story after another and you’re not sure how much more you can cope with. 

 

“The whole thing was so horrific to Sherlock at the time,” Mycroft goes on, letting go of you once he’s pushed you into a more upright position, “That he blotted it out. Victor turned into the dog that Sherlock had always wanted, but never been allowed because of father’s allergies and though the rest of us tried to get Eurus to tell us what she’d done with him she never did. It is only today, that, that part of things has become clearer.” You swallow. “Sherlock discovered that the girl we had believed all this time to be trapped in a plane was a metaphor for how Eurus was feeling herself”-you open your mouth-“Like a plane that could never land,” Mycroft informs you sadly, brushing at your hair. A shadow falls over your face. “He found her in the house and finally managed to convince her to help him save John. Had it been me in that position I'm not sure that she would have listened.” You think that you detect something bitter about his tone now and as you acknowledge it in your head it occurs to you that even though you feel like you’ve learnt a lot about the Holmes family that night there are probably further depths to plunge. 

 

Mycroft withdraws his hand from your hair and for a long moment neither of you say anything. You just sit there mulling it all over, whilst Mycroft looks like he’s lived a hundred days in one. Finally you say, “What I don’t get”-Mycroft’s eyes fix on you-“Is that you said Eurus was clever before”-

 

“Yes, a classified genius.” Mycroft looks puzzled and uncertain as to where you’re going with this. 

 

“But even if she’s that clever…I mean, surely she couldn't have done all that she did today alone?” Suddenly it seems like Mycroft can’t look at you again. He ducks his head. Your brow furrows. “Mycroft?”

 

“I made a mistake.” He looks at you again, but seems reluctant to continue. 

 

“Go on,” you urge. “I won’t be mad.” 

 

Mycroft looks doubtful of that. “I”-he rocks from side to side and you swallow patiently-“Well, Eurus, as damaged as she is, has been helpful as far as getting information is concerned. Information about terrorist attacks, that sort of thing.” Again you swallow. “But she demanded rewards. One year I gave her a violin. The next year, which would be five years ago now, she requested five minutes unsupervised conversation with James Moriarty for Christmas.” Your mouth drops open. You might have come properly onto the scene after James Moriarty had been killed, but Mrs. Hudson had told you of what had happened, the sense of loss and grief that he’d caused when it looked like Sherlock had died and you’d felt everyone’s terror first hand when Moriarty had been projected onto all the screens across the world. You might not have ever met the man, but the feelings that he’s summoned up in those around you has caused even you to have nightmares. Mycroft flinches at your reaction. “I know,” he says in a pained tone, ducking his head again, as if he senses that you’ve gone on to wonder how he could have thought that would be a good idea in any universe. “It turns out that in that five minutes she told him the truth about Victor, or Redbeard as Sherlock had been calling him, and they plotted all of today’s actions, deeming that it would take place in the event of Moriarty’s death. All through the little tasks she had us doing today she was playing recorded clips of Moriarty treating the entire thing as if it were entertaining, some sort of game.” You release a long breath, before you push your head into his shoulder and cup at his hair with a hand. “You’re still here?” Mycroft asks. He sounds surprised now. He'd been expecting you to leave the room, to create some distance between the pair of you, whilst you thought about all this. 

 

“Yes,” you murmur, stroking at his hair as you lean back. “Still here.” You smile tentatively at one another, before you lose your nerve a little. “That’s a good thing isn't it?” 

 

“Of course.” Mycroft grasps at your cheek instinctively and strokes at it. You let out a breath as he lets go and look down. Your clenched hands push against your trousers. You know that now the conversation about today’s events has come to an end it will inevitably perhaps move onto matters of your relationship or the future and you’re not sure what to make of that. Even though he’s been so honest with you tonight you know that, that doesn’t mean that things are necessarily going to change or become more serious between you. It might just be a one-off. Perhaps like you’d felt when you’d phoned him last out of everyone earlier he feels like you’re the only person, in the end, that he could have turned to. Perhaps because like Greg had said because you hadn’t been involved. You've always been on the fringe of things. “F/N?” Mycroft says suddenly. You look up at him. “Before tonight”-he scratches at his nose-“Before I said what I did”-you feel like you’re barely breathing, you know that he means about loving you-“You didn't really think that you meant so little to me did you? I mean I know I haven’t said that to you before, but you understood what a good friend you were to me?”

 

You swallow and look down again. “I-I thought that I might mean more to you than you were necessarily letting on because of the way that you kept coming back,” you confess, looking up at him bravely and forcing a half-smile at him. 

 

Mycroft’s face changes in that moment. “I’ve hurt you?” he realizes as his expression turns into one of regret. 

 

“Well, um”-you scratch at your nose uncertainly and look down. Quite honestly you feel so glad that he’s alive and that you’ve shared the moments with him that you have tonight-glad that he’s finally let you in-that you don’t feel as if you have any right, or quite frankly a desire to be angry with him right now. For anything. 

 

Understanding crosses Mycroft’s face. “Tell me if I do that again won’t you?” He pulls you towards him. You feel surprise as your face bumps into his chest. 

 

“Does that mean-?” You look up at him, hardly daring to hope. Please, _please_ don’t let me down now you think. 

 

“Its been a very long day F/N,” Mycroft tells you, brushing at your hair. Slowly you lie down, facing each other on your sides again. You clutch onto his blue tie as you look at him imploringly. His hand settles upon your waist. “I don’t have much energy left inside me. But I do know one thing, and that’s, that I want us to be together properly now. No more skirting around. Pretending that we don’t mean anything to one another.” You swallow. You get the feeling that somehow he knows exactly how you’ve been feeling. You know yourself that out of everyone he should have been the one you’d rung first earlier on. “No more hurting you or denying myself.” You look surprised by his last statement. “I have wanted to be with you every evening after work, every night, but felt like I couldn't. Not only because it would have complicated things between us, but for your own protection. I refuse to live like that any more though, not after getting so close to death today.” You let out a breath. “Would that sound acceptable to you? To introduce that change? Of course I’d have to upgrade your security detail,” he adds that last point as an afterthought. 

 

Your eyebrows rise in surprise at that. “I’ve got a security detail?” you ask. 

 

“Of course,” Mycroft says as if that should be obvious. Your face grows lighter. “So?” You smile a little. Out of everything that he’s said that night making your relationship with him more serious is the thing that you can accept the easiest. The one thing that makes the most sense to you. The one thing you realize now that you’ve wanted more than anything else recently. You nod. Mycroft smiles, but a moment later when he says, “I just can’t comprehend the fact that everyone’s alive…that I'm here with you,” you nestle closer and rub at his side. A small smile breaks over Mycroft’s face and the pair of you close your eyes and just breathe each other in. No more words or actions have to take place now. It’s not long before you fall asleep in that same position. 

 

*

 

When you wake it’s because a source of great warmth suddenly decides to retract itself from you. You blink and let out an unhappy groan, before you grow quiet automatically when you see Mycroft on the right as he stands by the bottom of the bed. He turns this way and that in front of the mirror as he attempts to smooth himself down. His brisk manner tells you one thing and you sit up, still feeling a little groggy from having stayed up so late the night before and from having fallen asleep in all of your clothes. “You’re going to work?” you ask him. 

 

Mycroft stops fiddling with his tie and turns to face you. “Ah, good morning. Yes. I’ll have to go home first and change out of these clothes, but yes.” 

 

“But”- you struggle, blinking and trying to get yourself more awake, “After yesterday-?” 

 

“Work doesn’t grind to a halt just because of one day.” He turns back to the mirror. Knowing what he’s doing you get off the bed and go across to him, placing your hands on his shoulders. He tenses a little, before, apparently steeling himself for something he turns back to face you. Your hands manage to slide to just beneath his shoulders, before he steps back with a clearing of his throat. “I know I said certain things last night, but we don’t have to tell anyone about us. Not if you don’t want to.” 

 

You know in that moment that he’s scared. Know that it’s easier for him to try and go back to his old life instead of going forwards in this new one. But you’re tough with him for his own good when you ask, “And how are we going to be together properly if we don’t tell anyone?” You fold your arms and look at him severely. "How is that going to change anything from what we've already been doing? In any case, if it makes a difference, I think everybody already knows. Though not of course about how serious we want things to be, which I'd like them to."

 

Mycroft lets out a little breath. He knows that as much as part of him just wants to carry on as if it’s a perfectly ordinary day and make things the same again yesterday has changed everything. There can be no going back to how things were before. Not now. You've already grasped that concept. “All right.” You look happier. “In that case perhaps you could join me briefly at work this morning? I know you have your own to get to, but unfortunately I can predict that Sherlock will take it upon himself to bring Mummy and Father to my office this morning. Whilst your presence won’t be able to alter that fact it would be useful in assisting me to deal with it.”

 

As you stare at him you can tell that this is the Mycroft of two days ago trying to cover up the vulnerability of yesterday. The typically cold exterior that he’s built up over the years trying to frantically glue together the scars. But the scars aren't healed. They’re still open. Open enough for him to extend this invitation and by doing so admit that he needs you. You nod. “Okay.”

 

*

 

As you stand there in Mycroft’s office, to the side of the chair he’s currently sitting on behind his desk you can’t believe what you’re hearing. Violet Holmes, who is standing threateningly close on the other side of the desk with her husband Edwin-Sherlock is at the back of the room sitting down and looking uncomfortable-has just called Mycroft an ‘idiot boy.’ She’s fuming about how he’d kept Eurus being alive for all these years a secret, which is understandable, but _still..._

 

“Excuse me,” you blurt out without being able to help it, your hand jumping to cover Mycroft’s shoulder. He gives a little start, but you barely notice it. Your eyes are fixed heatedly on his mother. As her gaze goes to you she moves her head from side to side in a snake-like fashion. “Don’t call him that. Mycroft is not an idiot by any stretch of the imagination. He did his best to manage what was and still is a very difficult situation.”

 

“If that was his best then he’s very limited,” Violet decides. Your fingers tighten on Mycroft’s shoulder as you stare at her, practically seething from head to foot. Mycroft feels better from having you there, but heavy from what his mother’s just said. “Who are you anyway?” Violet draws herself up. She’d started off her rant as soon as she’d entered Mycroft’s office, so there had been no time for introductions. 

 

“I'm”- your face heats up as you hesitate. Are you really allowed to call yourself Mycroft’s girlfriend? Would he be okay with that?

 

“This is a matter for family.” Your hand moves quickly off Mycroft’s shoulder and you stiffen. You don’t know how to respond to that. She’s right. You’re not family. 

 

Mycroft though it seems has other ideas. “The fact that this is a family matter is exactly why she’s here,” he says curtly, slipping one arm around your waist and drawing you to him. You miss the way that Sherlock’s eyes gleam with something. Your heart rate accelerates even more than it had done with that one action from Mycroft when he lets go of you and begins to get up. You step further aside to give him space. He huffs out a bit of a breath. Your heart still thumps as you turn to face one another. Mycroft looks at you steadily for a moment. “I was hoping to do this in private, but perhaps in fact this is for the best.” You can’t know that he’s thinking of the feeling he’d sensed coming from you last night, of you not being included and feeling left out as well as how you'd said you want things to be serious between you this morning and for everyone to know about it. He gets down on one knee. You stare at him in a transfixed fashion. Violet lets out a horrified little shriek and raises both her hands to her mouth. Sherlock leans forwards in his chair and Edwin looks perplexed. “F/N,” Mycroft focuses on you instead of any of the others, “I know we only discussed things last night. I know that this morning I needed to be put on the right path again and that it will take us both time to adjust to all of this. But despite all of that, and in spite of the fact that I have not yet had a chance to purchase a ring for you, there was one more thing that I knew for definite last night, which I did not share with you. That was that I wanted to, not only make things more serious between us, but marry you if I could. So, will you, as they say, make me the happiest man alive and agree to marry me?”

 

Your lip curves upwards, liking the way that he’d just phrased it. You take his hands and lift him into a standing position once more. “Yes,” you breathe, before you kiss him in a chaste fashion. 

 

Mycroft looks vindicated and you can tell that he feels momentarily lighter than he’s done in hours. But then there’s the matter of Sherlock and his parents and as you turn to face them together you can feel him tensing again as he puts an arm around your shoulders. “So you see Mummy, it turns out that F/N is family after all, or at least that’s what will be the case officially soon enough.” You peer up at him, hoping that he hasn’t just asked you to marry him to prove a point. But the soft strokes that he begins to make as his hand slips down to your back tell you otherwise. Tell you that he’s merely trying to cover up his fragile heart once more. 

 

Violet allows herself to fall for what he wants her to in the heat of the moment and lets out a snort. You shift your position uncomfortably, but the little growl that Mycroft gives you tells you to stay in place. Violet looks both ways. “Well”-her hands go to her hips, before they wave in the air-“I suppose if you’re going to insist on being childish and won’t deal with this properly Mycroft then we’ll have to turn to Sherlock. In any case he’s always been the grown-up”-your mouth opens at that-“Tell us Sherlock,” she implores as if seeking wisdom from a grand deity, “What are we supposed to do now?” 

 

“Excuse me.” You step forwards. Mycroft tries to snatch at your hand, but you pull it out of his reach. Violet looks at you disapprovingly. Edwin looks at you with a furrowed brow. “I don’t mean this badly-you know I love you as a friend Sherlock. You’re fantastic you really are-but since when has Sherlock ever been the grown-up compared to Mycroft? I know you’re angry now Violet. I get that. I get that you’re hurt and furious at not being told the true circumstances surrounding your daughter. But can you at least try and appreciate, through all of that, the person that your eldest son is instead of being so hurtful and cruel right now?”-

 

“Isn't that what he’s been to Edwin and I all these years by keeping that from us?”

 

“Your son Mrs. Holmes has worked hard all these years, spurred on no doubt by the fact that you seem, if today’s any indication, to have favoured Sherlock over him for all this time.” Mycroft swallows. His eyes go to the floor. Sherlock too looks uncomfortable. “He’s kind, decent and honourable. Not long ago he saved the life of a good friend of mine and just yesterday he was willing to sacrifice himself just so that Sherlock didn't have to lose another best friend. He was trying to be kind by not telling you the truth about Eurus all these years, so don’t you dare be so dismissive of him right now.”

 

Violet just stares at you steadily for a moment, before her eyes go to Mycroft again. “We’ll talk about all this another time,” she assures him, “When we have more privacy.” With that she casts you a glare that is enough to make you swallow, though still hold your ground, before she leads Edwin out. Sherlock sends both Mycroft and you a nod, before he follows out after them. 

 

Mycroft moves to sit behind his desk once more and you turn to him. “Sorry, I tried.” You shrug with a forced smile. 

 

“You were marvellous my dear,” he reassures you. Feeling encouraged you move closer to him. _“What?”_ he asks as he glances from the papers that he’s already started giving his attention to and catches the sparkle that’s in your eyes. 

 

“Call me that again,” you urge, placing both hands on the arm of his chair. 

 

His lip quirks upward. “My dear,” he murmurs, enunciating every word and giving a light, teasing brush to the tops of your knuckles with one of his hands. “You were marvellous.” 

 

You grin and peck at his lips in a pleased fashion. “Sorry.” You withdraw. “I’ll go now. Let things be a bit normal again.” Mycroft nods his head in an acknowledgement of thanks. You smile at him and then head off towards the door. Just before you reach it you look back. Mycroft’s eyes are still on you. You find yourself smiling again. You get the sense that no matter how difficult things might be from now on-what with the slow process of Mycroft and everyone else getting over yesterday only just having begun and the trouble that you might find yourself in every time you encounter Mrs. Holmes-they’ll also be a lot better too. As the corners of Mycroft’s lips twitch slowly upward and his eyes shine softly upon you, you get the sense that he can feel it too. You let out a fond breath and finally leave him for your own work.


End file.
